The Truth Behind The Mask
by Ghost Whisperer If Not Human
Summary: We get an insider's peak at how the Joker became to be.


The Truth Behind the Make-Up

Aka the Joker's Documentations

The Joker was no one to mess with if it meant to be told a story and be stabbed; loving the last few moments to see who in truth is the real coward. For madness, put the fear of god through the wringer and back but he never believed to be ahead or a genius. While the stuttering and make-up looked like a ploy to hide his true self which was a lie created most likely by a genius but of course no one has seen him since. Crow's black linear painted around the eyes while the white make-up covers his whole face besides his lips are of the blood of the Joker's victims.

This story was as hard to gather because of the fact he always tried to lie during the time he was telling it. The story of why the Joker became who he is is the truth not another made up story of which to scare people. This is the documentation of a lonely boy whose parents didn't get along while suffering it alone. I warn people that this is not for the faint hearted or for people who gets queasy easily.

"Once upon a time- oh, uh, who am I kidding this isn't, uh, love story or even an adventure story the only thing close to a right description is that one of, uh, horror movie. From the beginning there was no love or sympathy for the situation from no one because no one knew or was uh loud to. If I spoke up I would be held in a cell at least that was what I called it even though it was a broom closet. The only reason I was alive was for the benefit of the money that brought the bacon for my father. My mother was so darn skinny she barely had enough milk to sustain me and if I wasn't here only god knows what my father would have done besides what he, uh, always done.

My father to me has no name other than the hate he kept building in my heart while my heart started to turn black and disappear. The black started to weave into the veins closest to my heart; began earlier than many abused people could understand, before I could crawl. My first memory is of my father coming into my room stumbling, knocking down things trying to stay up right, getting closer to my crib. He bent over me lighting a cigarette taking a deep breath and blowing the smoke in my face then putting the cigarette on my babyish skin.

At the, uh, age of, three, I already had too many scars and cigarette burns to count on five people's fingers and toes. But he was smart enough to do them where they could be covered up by clothing. The scars were all from different knives he found anywhere or collected. He also made sure that every time he put the knife to my skin that it was deep enough and severe enough that it would leave uh scar behind. The burns were from many things such as burning hot water, lit cigarettes, scolding wires, lighters, and so much more.

Living with uh drunk, abuser as uh father and uh mother who was uh psychotic trying to protect her child taught me many things, at the time, wished I had never been through."

"Sorry for the interruption but you said wished as in back in the past; what about now?"

"He-he, yes, now I see the, uh, funny side of it," the Joker said laughing at the end of it. "Now he was the, uh, one who did this," the Joker said as he pointed to the scars by his mouth looking more of a lunatic than anything else.

"Now, you're lying to me, Joker."

"Your right," he replied looking happy that I had caught the lie. "Now let me finish. I couldn't be in the house during day unless I wanted to have one punishment after another. I would walk the dark alleys; hiding my face along with anything else people might uh recognize. At night, after my uh father was full he gave what was left from his plate to my mother and me to, uh, split. She usually gave me the most even if it uh meant she had to starve.

I grew up weak enough to uh survive but strong enough to keep everything I did hidden so no one would ever uh find out. I was growing up and uh needed more food then what was given but because he was a true dick; so when I asked, he punched me in the face and didn't give me any food for a week. During that week I started what would become a joy to me.

I was sitting in my uh dark alley when a teenager walked by eating a greasy hamburger; I was only eight when I jumped the teenager, snapped his neck by pure force, and took his hamburger stuffing it down my throat. I had a smile on my face for the first uh time ever because I actually had a true meal. Still smiling I uh looked at the corpse and shook my head, throwing the dead boy in the dumpster and closed the lid while starting to walk away.

That was my first kill, sixty pounds of pressure and snap, but I didn't like the feel it just felt wrong, the way I killed him. When I came home that night I wasn't starving so I let my uh mom have the leftovers from my evil uh dad's plate. My uh mom was uh confused as to why I didn't need any of the food but she didn't question it. That night my uh father got so uh drunk that he passed out drunk on the floor close to the bed. I thought that was a good time to sniff around such as a bloodhound.

What I found was more confusing than not like finding uh white powder for the face, blood looking like lipstick, and wet, uh, black linear for the eyes. Also, I found a double edged dagger with a blue diamond at the handle and it looked like it has never been used. Looking around nothing else popped out at me so I uh looked in the last room. When I started looking, I uh found some uh razor blades.

The next, uh, morning at four a.m., I was out of the house and sitting in a different alley than where the dead corpse probably still uh is. This time, uh, older man was walking down the alley, carrying what looked like a Big Mac from McDonalds, not looking anywhere besides in front of him. Once he passed me I, uh, snuck up behind him and slit his throat, cutting the main blood vessel. This time though I was in a very uh bad mood, so I cut him up in small pieces and put them in a black trash bag.

Three years passed with different kinds of murder but no one had a single lead and never tried to piece all these murders together. Police were, uh, trying to keep these "random acts of murder on the down low. Over the period of three years the murders were at its all time high.

At the age of eleven I had uh killed over one hundred and fifty people to keep myself fed, and I uh only killed people over the age of eighteen and was carrying some kind of food. But one day my father went off the uh cliff, so to say, and took a knife to my mom."

"I have a question, Joker. How well do you remember this event, which I can see has been a very traumatic event?"

"I remember, he-he, every little thing that happened that one uh day," the Joker replied with a deep hatred, sympathy, most likely for himself or his mother, and anger in his auburn eyes.

"Can you describe everything as you remember?"

"Now why would I do that?" the Joker asked with killing intent shimmering out of his very being. "When I have been doing that, all, uh long."

"I'm very sorry for insulting you, Joker, that wasn't what I wanted," I said. "Please continue."

"I might just accept you're uh apology," the Joker said with a smirk.

"Now, that evening, I got in my father was in the hallway already with uh knife in his hand, holding it to my mother's neck. His eyes were covered with a hard glass that I uh knew I wouldn't be able to penetrate. I slowly walked forward, keeping my eyes on my uh mother and asked my uh father, "What do you want?"

He started to laugh hysterically eyes still dimmed and glassed he said, "I know you have taken some things of mine now you will pay dearly." I finally lifted my eyes to my father and made sure my face and body showed nothing.

"How will I pay?" I asked slowly, slowly moving forward. My uh mother was shaking as badly as weeds moving with uh hundred miles per hour wind.

"You will have a choice!" he screamed.

"What is the uh things I can pick from?" I asked already knowing what one of the choices is.

"Choice number one, I kill your fucking mother," he uh said while my uh mother started to shed some tears. "Choice number two, you take one of the razor blades you stole from me, stick it in your mouth and give yourself two ugly scars on both sides or your mouth, in the form of a smile. The choice is yours."

I started to pull a razor blade out of my jean's pocket when uh my mother yelled, "No! Don't, oh god, no." My uh father started to draw a small line of blood from the knife he started to dig into her.

"Stop," I said quietly. I pulled the razor blade completely out of my uh pocket and put it in my mouth. And dug it in; closing my eyes from the pain and taste of copper mixed with salt. Once I uh had that side done I did the other side. After, I pulled the razor blade out; I had to spit out some of the blood, and I finally opened my, uh, eyes.

My uh mother was dead, bleeding out from a severed neck wound from a knife, lying at my uh father's feet. I was still looking at my uh mother's body when my uh father dropped dead from cutting open his throat. I was tired, in shock and didn't know what to do so I ran and started to wear the make-up I found to keep myself hidden. On television they only did one hour episode on the double homicide stating that I was the one who killed them," the Joker finished looking straight in my eyes with laughter. "You got what you, he-he, need now leave!"

"Thank you," I said starting to leave; at the door handle, I paused and said, "You know Joker it wasn't your fault your father was a mother fucker." All the Joker did was nod and turned his head; so I left.

Dated: December 22, 2013 Signature: Brittney Rohlfing


End file.
